by Lucy Ashford
She’d expressed her scorn for his low birth, but he’d had enough of her, quite clearly. And why not, when his conquests of society beauties were legendary? When some of England’s most aristocratic families were desperate to throw their marriageable daughters in his path?
His casual cancelling of the business of the sheep had underlined his contempt for her. That, as far as Mr Adam Davenant was concerned, was the end of it.
But it was very much not the end for Belle.
Somehow she was going to get together the money to pay him back for those sheep. Last night she’d resolved to tell Edward about her decision—but a letter from Edward had arrived this morning. The writing was haphazard and scratchy; several words had been crossed out.
My dear Belle, Charlotte has given birth to a baby boy. But you will be grieved to hear that the infant is extremely frail; I do not like to think what will happen if poor Charlotte loses this child...
Belle’s hands had been shaking by the time she put the letter down. After two miscarriages, Charlotte had at last given birth to a living child—but this one might bring her even more grief than those earlier tragedies. Belle could imagine only too well the all-night vigils, the grave voices of the doctor and nurse, the scents of the sick room.
Great though the differences were between her and her brother, she could scarcely bear to think of the sorrow of that vulnerable little household.
* * *
‘But I’ve said at least twenty times, we need another pleat of silk here— Oh, madame. Why don’t you take a walk in the fresh air, down to the park perhaps?’ Gabby gave a little sigh. ‘As you were saying, we’re not exactly busy— Dieu!’
Something out in the street had caught Gabby’s keen eye and she hurried to the bow window. ‘There’s a carriage pulling up outside. It’s being driven by the most wonderful-looking man...’
Belle sprang to the window to join her. Oh, horrors.
Gabby’s wonderful man was letting himself down from the seat of a plain but expensive curricle, while his groom held the beautiful black horses. Adam Davenant.
Her heart was thudding sickly. Why was he here? Had he changed his mind, about those blasted sheep? Mentally she counted up the money she’d got together to pay him back. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Perhaps they could come to some agreement. But wasn’t ‘an agreement’ exactly what he’d suggested—then withdrawn? Oh, drat the man. Shivers ran up and down her spine.
She could see through the window that he was walking—no, striding—towards her shop door. A man with a figure like his didn’t just walk anywhere. Belle found she was gripping her scissors defensively. ‘Will you go out to him, please, Gabby, and find out what he wants?’
Gabby, wide-eyed, nodded and hurried out; seconds later she was back, her face alight with excitement.
‘Madame, his name is Monsieur Davenant. He says to tell you that he knows you’re in, he saw you through the window. He asks would you come out for a drive with him, in the park, because there are some matters you need to discuss.’
For a second Belle’s blood froze in her veins. ‘Tell Mr Davenant we have nothing to discuss, Gabby. Tell him a drive in the park is not at all convenient.’
Once more Gabby dashed out and in again.
‘Madame, he says he will stand outside on the pavement until it is convenient. Till nightfall if need be!’
And he damn well would. Belle bit her lip in frustration as Gabby rattled on, ‘Oh, madame, I have heard about Monsieur Davenant. The fashionable ladies of the town, they fight to be his mistress—’
Perhaps a temporary, a tactical surrender was her only option. ‘Please tell him,’ Belle cut in tartly, ‘that given the unexpected pleasure of his invitation, I’m sure Mr Davenant will quite understand that I need to get changed into something—appropriate.’
* * *
Over twenty minutes later Belle came down the stairs and Gabby’s eyes opened wide with awe.
‘Madame. Are you sure?’
Belle looked down at herself, a dangerous light in her eyes. ‘This gown is striking, Gabby, don’t you think?’
‘But you made it for—someone else! For Mrs Sherville, who is not known, madame, for her subtlety in her manner of dressing!’
‘Absolutely not,’ agreed Belle. Harriet Sherville was, in fact, a well-known actress and courtesan. ‘But the lady in question hasn’t paid us for her last two outfits yet, so I’ve decided I shall wear this one myself.’
In Belle’s eyes glittered a steely determination. Gabby opened her mouth to speak, then, thinking better of it, swallowed and hurried to open the door for her.
Belle was clad in a military-style carriage gown of crimson lutestring. Gold-braid frogging, lavish with knots and loops, adorned it from collar to toe. The crimson collar was high, emphasising her clear complexion; the stiffened bodice cupped her bosom tightly—and was slashed to reveal a tempting display of creamy cleavage.
If this gown embarrassed Adam Davenant, then so much the better. As a finishing touch Belle set on her dark curls a crimson silk shako, with one long gold feather trailing to her shoulder.
Gabby looked stunned. Thank you, Harriet Sherville, muttered Belle under her breath. And swept out.
Mr Davenant was looking at his watch.
She expected him to take one glance at her and send her back to get changed again. Or to utter some pithy insult and drive off in his fancy curricle.
He did neither. Instead his dark eyebrow arched. ‘Almost worth the wait,’ he remarked casually.
Belle fastened her gold-satin reticule with something of a snap. ‘I thought I might make you think twice another time, Mr Davenant, before issuing your peremptory summons.’
‘Then I’m afraid you’ve failed,’ he said. ‘You’re making me think I should have treated myself to your company earlier.’
Belle stared at him in astonishment. Drat the man. She glanced down and caught sight of her own daring cleavage. Touched, unthinking, her red hat with its trailing feather. ‘You mean—you approve of what I’m wearing?’
‘I like it very much. Though I’d rather you’d not taken so long over it all.’
‘Oh, it’s a woman’s privilege, you know, to be as late as she chooses.’
‘Not at the expense of my horses. My groom’s had to unharness them and walk them up and down the Strand for almost half an hour.’
She bit her lip. Damn. She didn’t mind making him suffer, but his horses were a different matter. She smiled sweetly up at him. ‘Then perhaps on another occasion you might do me the honour of giving me a little more notice of your intentions.’ Her smile vanished. ‘My time is valuable, Mr Davenant. I hope you have good reason for this intrusion.’
He leaned closer—unsettlingly closer. Oh, Lord, her cleavage—he’d be able to see right down... ‘I do,’ he said softly. ‘But I would prefer to discuss the matter in the park. We need to talk. Please climb up.’
He was holding out his hand. ‘The park? Mr Davenant, you must know what people will think!’
‘People will do more than think, if they see us together.’ His eyes assessed her briefly. ‘They will talk a great deal about us. And—it might be a good idea to look as if we’re enjoying one another’s company.’
‘Enjoy?’ She huffed with indignation. ‘You are jesting.’
‘Then pretend to enjoy being at my side. It’s in your best interests, I assure you.’
She tossed her head, setting that long golden feather a-quiver. ‘Very well. I’m told I’m quite good at acting.’
Ouch, Adam acknowledged. He helped her up—unable to resist relishing the slenderness of her waist—but he did try not to look at her décolletage. Then he told his groom to go and buy himself a pint of ale at the Red Lion nearby.
‘Very well, guv’nor.’ The little groom, who’d privately been admiring Mrs Marchmain’s décolletage very much and was familiar with his master’s methods of telling him his presence wasn’t required, touched his h
at cheerfully. ‘A pint of best, then I’ll find me own way back, eh? You enjoy your drive, now!’
* * *
Adam set off at a smart pace, but kept one eye on his companion to make sure she wasn’t about to leap off, or perhaps stab him with those sewing scissors he’d seen her clutching rather desperately inside her shop.
If she’d hoped to deter him with that outfit, she was failing abysmally. Once you ignored the violent
colour—which actually, he liked, he was fed up with insipid pale muslins—the neat military style rather deliciously hugged the alluring contours of her figure. And though she was clearly having second thoughts about the low neckline—she kept tugging the gold-braided edges of the gown together—the garment was really being remarkably stubborn and insisted on parting to display a tantalising glimpse of her smooth, rounded breasts.
She was nervous, he thought suddenly. Nervous, and also quite delectable. He found himself remembering how that pink mouth had tasted sweet and soft beneath his own...
Adam arrested his burgeoning desire rather grimly and concentrated on the traffic.
Time for business.
* * *
Belle sat upright at his side, almost shaking with fury and consternation. Why? Why had he sought out her company when he’d told her, at his Mayfair house, that they need never see each other again?
But—it was such a lovely day, and Hyde Park looked so beautiful. As Adam swung his carriage into the fashionable cavalcade, several of the gentry, riding fine horses or driving open carriages, nodded and smiled to Adam, though when they noted that he wasn’t alone, many a head was twisted again in blatant curiosity.
The women watched Adam, too, with acquisitive glances; Belle herself couldn’t resist stealing a look at her handsome companion as he concentrated on tooling his splendid horses, couldn’t help but feel her breath catching in her throat. Oh, my.
She’d already noticed he was wearing a dark-grey coat that was unostentatious, but so well fitted that there was always a disturbing sense of his powerful male body beneath the elegant finery. His thighs, encased in skintight buckskins, were iron-hard with muscle—her own legs had brushed against them inadvertently as he seated himself and the heat had flared in her veins just at that touch. He held the reins without gloves; she saw that his hands were strong and firm and lightly tanned, with long, well-manicured fingers...
Stop it, Belle, you fool. She pushed the very physical reality of Mr Adam Davenant to the back of her mind to concentrate on the question—why had he talked just now, in a way that sent shivers down her spine, about the need for them to be seen in public together?
At their last meeting this man—whose grandfather began life as a penniless miner!—couldn’t have made it plainer that he despised her thoroughly. She felt cold beneath her ridiculous finery. So what did he want from her now?
Clearly he intended to keep her waiting. He pulled up to talk briefly to some friends of his who were on horseback. Belle sat very primly, but she was aware that the men were eyeing her with frank appreciation. Wearing this startling red outfit was a huge mistake. She’d hoped to embarrass Davenant, but had simply succeeded in embarrassing herself.
Her second mistake was to have agreed to this at all.
‘Well, Mr Davenant,’ she said with icy politeness once his friends had gone, ‘it will soon be all round town that I’m enjoying the dubious pleasure of your company—but I think we were both of us quite clear at our last meeting that this was something neither of us wanted. As to Edward and the unfortunate matter of the sheep—’
‘His livestock thievery,’ interrupted Davenant obligingly.
Her teeth clenched. ‘It was a matter of only a few dozen, I believe!’
‘Ah, yes. A hanging offence, merely,’ he said politely.
The colour drained from her cheeks. ‘Anyway,’ Belle pressed on, tilting her chin, ‘I have decided the situation is far from acceptable to me and I’m well on my way to getting the necessary sum to pay you back.’
He turned to gaze at her. First at her cleavage—for long enough to make her cheeks flame—then at her face. Something in those hooded grey eyes made her stomach quail within her. ‘Mrs Marchmain, one of the things I most respect about you is your honesty. Don’t let me down. I have, in fact, heard that you’ve rather desperately been trying to raise money in the last day or so.’
‘Y-you’ve heard? But how?’
‘A single woman wearing outrageous clothes and trailing round London’s banks inevitably stirs up gossip. I must say, I was a little surprised. I thought—in fact, you told me quite forthrightly—that your dressmaking business was doing well.’
‘Oh, it is,’ Belle said blithely. ‘We’re simply going through a temporary quiet spell.’
‘I see. I gather,’ he went on calmly, ‘that you’ve had no success in your efforts to borrow money—otherwise you’d by now have thrust the filthy lucre in my face and told me to go to the very devil.’
She gazed at him, stricken. Adam staunched any sneaking pity for the flamboyant little widow dressed in military red and went on, ‘I thought I made it quite clear I do not wish to be repaid for those damned sheep. Especially as they were stolen by your brother, who, if he had an ounce of your spirit, would be bowing his head in shame for having sent his sister to me to plead for him.’
‘He did not ask me to—’
‘Then why?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why trouble to defend such a weak, shallow fool?’
She said tightly, ‘Do you have to make everything so hateful, Mr Davenant?’
‘I like to understand situations and people,’ he rapped out. ‘I flatter myself that I have some skill. But one thing about you puzzles me mightily, Mrs Marchmain. Your refusal to see your brother for what he is.’
She turned sideways to face him, and bestowed on him a glittering smile. ‘La, Mr Davenant,’ she simpered in a Somerset accent. ‘How wonderful it would be, to find oneself as all-seeing as you!’ Her green eyes glittered; her cheeks were now extremely pale. Slowly, deliberately, she took off her bright red shako with its single trailing feather and dropped it over the side of the carriage. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘I seem to have lost my hat. Would you retrieve it for me?’
Frowning, he drew his black horses to a halt, looped the reins and jumped down.
The minute he bent to pick up her hat, Belle slid across into the driver’s seat to take up the ribbons. ‘Hup!’ she called. The horses trotted off smartly. She heard his shouts.
She seethed. Abominable, hateful man to insult her so! Serve him right if she just left him there. She tooled on a little, expertly holding the reins. Gentlemen she didn’t know pulled up their horses and stared at her in open-mouthed admiration; she was hardly missable in Mrs Sherville’s outrageous outfit. She nodded and smiled at them. By God, she would make Adam Davenant regret his high-handedness.
She made a skilful manoeuvre and returned to him at last, holding his mettlesome horses in a neat walk. He was just standing there, watching. No hint of a smile touched his finely shaped mouth.
She pulled up and slid sideways into her own seat. Swinging himself aboard, he handed her the shako without a word, took the reins and sent the horses on at a rather smart trot that nearly threw her off.
He said at last, in a decidedly cool voice, ‘That wasn’t a bad display. But you were holding the left rein a little too tightly—you should have made adjustments for the longer step of the leading wheeler.’ He was irate, she could see. There was something about the set of his jaw that made her tremble a little inside.
No. Don’t be afraid, Belle. That’s the worst thing you can possibly do, you fool, with a man of his kind. At least—don’t let him see that you’re afraid.
She settled her bright red hat back upon her curls and tilted her chin defiantly. ‘Were you scared that I might fall off?’
He turned to her, his eyes iron-hard. ‘No. But I was afraid you might damage my horses.’
She did not reply,
but clenched her hands together very tightly. When Adam turned to look at her he saw she was holding her head as high as ever, but—the devil, was that a glint of tears in her eyes?
He cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. ‘I have come to offer you a new proposal, Mrs Marchmain.’
Her heart filled with dread.
‘I thought we’d been through this,’ she said carefully. ‘You asked me to be your mistress. But when I agreed you told me you’d changed your mind.’
She kept her voice steady. But the humiliation of that day at his house—the memory of his kiss, to which she’d so raptly surrendered—was still an unhealed wound.
‘This is different,’ he announced.
‘Oh?’ She smiled up at him sweetly. ‘You’ll forgive me if I tell you that any kind of proposal from you, Mr Davenant, is unlikely to be received by me with rapture.’
‘You’ll at least hear me out, I hope. I’ve been thinking. You’ve referred often enough to my lowly background.’
She hissed in a sharp breath.
‘You, on the contrary,’ he pressed on ruthlessly, ‘are related to a duke. And I’ve been told on many occasions that I should make a match into the aristocracy.’
‘I hardly see why you’re troubling to inform me of your matrimonial plans, Mr Davenant.’ Though I feel heartily sorry for the woman of your choice, she added with feeling under her breath.
‘Don’t you?’ He turned to her and raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ve been thinking, believe it or not, that the great-niece of a duke might just suit my purpose.’
Belle could hardly speak. ‘If this is your idea of a jest...’
‘Not at all. Last time, at my house, we talked somewhat unsuccessfully about you paying for your brother’s folly by becoming my mistress. This time, Mrs Marchmain—I’m suggesting a betrothal.’
Now the colour really did drain from Belle’s cheeks; in fact, her world spun round. ‘A betrothal? With me? You cannot be serious!’